Tuesday, June 29, 2010

This is what it’s all about, this growing-your-own-food thing: having enough to put some up for the winter -- and, of course staging your own personal anti-Monsanto protest -- which means that while Greg is goofing off on his bike in the wilds of Utah, I’m just here working my fingers to the bone (righteously!) like a good little (righteous!) country woman: weeding, harvesting, freezing, dehydrating, gleaning…

Since hot temps make most greens bitter and tough, I pulled the remainder of the broccoli raab and kale; blanched and froze them. As we’re now seeing 100 degree days, it’s time to rely on the more heat tolerant chard for summer greens.

The cherries are all picked, some from my own Sweet Stella tree, some gleaned from a neighborhood tree that we get permission to pick. Since the tree is right on the sidewalk, the low branches are picked over early by passersby, but we take a ladder and are able to get a decent haul from the harder-to-reach branches that no one else bothers with.

...but be warned: wear red because cherry juice will splatter all over the work area and you. The pit frequently takes the bottom of the cherry with it, and these little cherry bottom blow-outs wing all over the kitchen.

Most of us normally just pop whole cherries in our mouths and spit the pit out, yes? In the process of cutting each cherry in half – as required for dehydrating – I’m seeing just how many cherries come with the little protein bonus of an icky white larva residing in the center of the cherry along side the pit.

Extensive internet research tells me that these are most likely larvae – or maggots if you prefer – of the cherry fruit fly: “Up to 40 eggs have been reported as being deposited in a single fruit. Normally, only one maggot develops in each fruit, even though many eggs may have been deposited in that fruit. Primary damage results from the feeding of the larva within the fruit. Infested fruits appear normal until the maggot is nearly full-grown, at which time sunken spots appear. Maggots and their frass within the fruit render the product unsalable.” (Source: http://www.canr.msu.edu/vanburen/fcfly.htm)

Friday, June 25, 2010

Greg took off this afternoon to go ride the Dixie 311 course in Utah with Mike and some other boys. With 50-plus backcountry miles per day and five ridiculously steep mountain climbs in a week, it's just a tad much for me, so I'm staying home where I'll spend the week sitting around eating bon-bons. And whatever other naughty things I think I can't get away with eating while Greg is here.

I feel like a bit of a food-schizo, being of rural southern roots, with some of my favorite old comfort foods being Grandma recipes and Mom recipes that include a can of cream of chicken soup, but having been raised in the San Francisco Bay Area with its amazing, cutting edge, innovative, world class food, which I also really love.

Eating well most of the time is important to me, especially when the garden is burgeoning with lovely organic veggies and greens to saute and have with some brown rice -- one of the easiest and yummiest meals ever! The red stuff is beet chutney, also from the garden, that we canned last fall.

Still, I sometimes yearn for the less-than-healthy foods of my childhood. Knowing that non-southern-roots-ers would likely not appreciate them, I don't usually subject friends or Greg to these foods. I save them for times like this when I have the week to myself and no witnesses. My baby brother will come revel in these meals with me, but he's sworn to secrecy.

First on the week's list of guilty pleasure foods is a lime Jello salad that one of my grandmothers used to make for holiday dinners. It's not as bad as the Jello monstrosities that have marshmallows, mayonnaise and maraschino cherries in them, but, alas, it is Jello. It is, however, I tell myself, sort of a healthy-ish version of jello salad: chopped pecans, celery, cottage cheese, a couple of other less mentionable ingredients. I love it.

When I asked Greg what he'd think about eating it he said, "Mm, yes, I can see that. I mean, after all, it is made from delicious, refreshing horse hooves." Well, I guess we know who won't be getting any -- not that there will be any left by the time he returns.

We camped at the edge of a small canyon. The sun had set but the cloudless sky, and maybe the air itself, was still glowing with the remains of the day. We gathered twigs and sticks and our small fire began to burn as the sky faded into a darker glow of moonlight.

Low manzanita scrub wrapped red branches around our cliff-side seats. Pines pointed out stars in the luminous sky. Nighthawk cries fell from above and the air vibrated with their diving wings. The hushing sound of water rose gently up from the deeper shadows of the canyon and lapped against the sandstone cliffs.

***

A few hours earlier we had left the truck behind, carrying all we needed for the night. Trina and I had sleeping gear on our handlebars, other bags tied to our bikes, and smaller backpacks. Trina's brother Derrell had kept it simple with a bigger pack. He had also kept it simple with a singlespeed, hardtail bike, while we were riding our multi-geared full-suspension bikes. Zeek and Sprocket, the two dogs, were equipped with four-foot-drive and bundles of enthusiasm. (We carried their food.)

Our purpose, on the surface at least, was to ride, sleep, and ride some more. We rode up a dusty road that turned into dusty track that turned into a dusty trail. Pinyon and juniper and a taste of the desert. As the canyon narrowed, the dust subsided and the moisture of the creek elbowed into green meadows and bushes alongside the trail.

The riding was smooth and flowing and our loads were light enough that we were grinning as we pedaled along. An upstream ride that feels like a downstream ride is a good thing on a bike. We rode steadily while the dogs happily romped along.

As the sun dropped we plunged into the shadow of the canyon and rode on, dodging oak branches and feathering our legs through waving grass. But then we emerged back into sunlight where the creek poured from beaver ponds and wider meadows.

It was too lovely a spot to leave immediately. And it was dinner time. Trina and I cooked our simple fare on a tiny stove on the mud bank of a pond while Derrell threw a line into the water and dreamed of fish dinner. The dogs chased scents and tried to tangle Derrell's line. Despite the "help" he pulled three little trout from the ponds. Lovely but small, they were all returned to the water and we ate the food we'd brought.

A muskrat swam past. A beaver stuck a head out to check us out, then popped back underwater and away. Mosquitoes buzzed and bit. We packed our dinner gear, walked our bikes across the rickety sticks of a beaver dam and rode on.

We rode narrow track through scented sage, crossed the creek again, then pushed and huffed up steeper trail to the top of the ridge. The sun dropped off the far side of the plateau and in the slowly falling darkness, we found our cliffside camp.

***

I suppose the deeper purpose of our trip was to do what small bands of humans and their animals have been doing for much longer than they've been delivering mail, or building cabinets or fixing bikes. Maybe even longer than they've been telling stories. We were moving across the land, aware of our surroundings, alert for danger or challenge. We were looking around ourselves to find the resources we'd need to thrive.

Not that it was very difficult for us to thrive. But we could still make good choices and bad choices. We made a good choice of camp. Safe, sound and scenic, with a nice layer of soft-ish pine needles to put our sleeping pads over. But we made a few poor choices as well.

We had tried to keep our gear light enough that the riding would be fun instead of a drudgery. We'd succeeded at that. But maybe just a little too much at the expense of our nighttime comfort. No one slept very well as the night cooled. Derrell slept okay until the wee hours, when he got cold. And Trina fought the cold and a punctured air mattress all night.

I slept alright despite being a bit chilly. It did help to have Zeek tucked in with me, except for the half dozen times he had to get up in the night to stare into the darkness to make sure there wasn't any danger heading our way.

***

I woke up on the morning of the longest day of the year to the red ball of the sun burning dimly on the horizon through thin hazy clouds that looked like smoke from distant fires. The dogs and I wandered away from camp in the half light. Red, white, yellow and purple clusters of flowers sprouted from beds of gravel. Birds twittered morning songs. The light touched softly on the cliffs across the canyon. Pine scented the cool air.

Back in camp, the sun at last burned through the haze and was bright on the two sleeping bags where Trina and Derrell, warm at last, lay sleeping. I fueled the little stove and cooked myself a simple breakfast, and soon they were up, hungry, and we cooked theirs, too. Then we scattered the cold ashes of our night's fire, packed our bags, and rode off into the day.

We left the edge of the canyon behind and traveled into open country, wide spaces of grass and sage where dark pines stood sentinel. The two-track became a dirt track became a dirt road as we rode upward and into the wind on the gently sloping plain. The scrub grew thicker, the pines grew closer and the white-trunked aspen grew more abundant as we moved along. We found a small runnel of water where we could fill our bottles.

In the early afternoon, we turned off the road onto a thin ribbon of trail that wound through meadows and forest, past small streams and amidst more flowers. We wound our way happily along and then stopped at a creek crossing for lunch and a nap. Then we chased each other down the trail again until we popped out at a well traveled gravel road.

Our dogs do not plan for the future. That may be part of what we like about them. There is no way to get them to drink more water when it may be a long way until the next. And though we stopped frequently to rest and enjoy a spot, they didn't rest. They were running and sniffing and exploring and bounding around during every "rest" stop we made. So by the time we hit the gravel road, they were starting to slow down a bit.

Trina offered to take them and shortcut a few miles down the gravel road. While Derrell and I took a longer loop, away, and then down a nice narrow slice of trail that cut down a little valley. It started steep and forested, then slowly opened up to more meadows and flowers, flowing downward and encouraging us to ride faster then we had all day.

We tracked past a blue reservoir, then churned more gravel road until we met back up with Trina and the dogs. They had gone slowly and had gotten a bit of rest. We all had a bit more rest and a snack. Then we hiked our bikes down a rocky, twisted trail that led back to the canyon beaver ponds where three fish had been caught the day before.

From there, there was nothing left to do. Except to enjoy more miles of sweet descending singletrack that wound and thrummed through forest, meadow and scrub. Trina and Derrell surged ahead, while I bike-strolled along with the tuckered dogs. We were all smiling and tired as we pedaled and trotted from the moist canyon into the last dusty miles.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

As we prepare to embark on my first bIkepacking trip -- just a single overnight, a test run of sorts -- I'm dredging my memory for the packing lessons gleaned from the many bAckpacking experiences of years past. Starting with my first Conservation Corps end-of-the-trailwork-season-trip into Yosemite at age 17, I've learned how to pack better, how to whittle down the huge pile of stuff you think you can't live without to a much smaller pile of true essentials.

Every time you go on a trip like this, it feels like you have to figure it out all over again, reinvent the wheel, rewrite the list, re-tweak the system. Even in car camping, where there are practically no limits to what you can take, it helps immensely to have a decent, organized system for packing. Compare:

2. You won't wear those extra two pair of shorts so don't even bother taking them. You'll come home in the same pair you left in, wore every day, and slept in, only they'll be 46 times filthier.

3. Always carry a couple of Q-tips. Aside from the sheer, exquisite luxury of getting desert sand and dead gnats out of your ears in the evening, you may need to use them for bartering services. For instance, if, say, you've taken along this great instant, no cook, just add water chocolate pudding mix and it turns out to be not a thick, lovely, smooth, creamy dessert but clumps of coagulated, flavorless, gelatinous brown matter floating in bubbles in your water bottle, you can usually get someone to drink it for you for the price of a couple of Q-tips. (We do not just dump that kind of crap on the ground when leaving no trace!)

4. Most importantly, no matter what else is eliminated for being too heavy or too bulky or inessential, TAKE A FULL SIZED PILLOW.

I'm quite serious. A good night's sleep -- or a crappy one -- makes such a difference in your overall experience. And you're carrying a gargantuan pack anyway; the addition of a light, fluffy, compressible pillow is nothing in relation to a pack twice the size of your own torso. Look at that pack:

The pillow, which weighs practically nothing, is strapped to the top on the outside of the pack (not taking up essential space inside for TRUE essentials). You barely even notice it. No harm done. And everyone is completely jealous when you set up your bed and settle in comfortably for the night with a smug grin spreading across your softly-cushioned face instead of groping around, as they are, for rocks and shoes upon which to lay your weary head.

As I start the elimination process otherwise known as packing for this weekend's bikepack, I'm grateful to have a cute little under-the-seat bag to put everything in, on loan from our bikepacking friend Mike -- as well as his expert advice.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Last eve, in lieu of wilder outdoor adventures, we traveled to the fabled land of Suburbia. The park there turned out to be fantastic.

We were headed for the official fenced dog park where there's a separate area for small dogs, which seems to be important to Zeek who has a tendency to be a bit reactionary with large, scary dogs. ("Are you sniffing my butt? Are you sniffing MY butt? I'll SHOW you whose BUTT you're SNIFFING!") But we ended up outside the dog area where there were other unleashed but relatively controlled dogs going on walks and chasing balls in the still-hot sunshine of the evening.

There was enough wide green space there for us to have some of our own. Our dogs were tearing around at alarming speeds, harrying each other, chasing the flying disc, jumping into the pond and grinning wide dog grins. There was also a marshy area filled with tall grass where they were leaping and bounding and scattering blackbirds and hunting for muskrats (or something).

The sun dropped down to skim along the horizon, lost some of its heat and turned up the color saturation. We walked lazily along chatting and laughing at our dogs.

All was good, except that along the fringe of a fishing pond there were the occasional decaying corpses of ugly cat/sucker/carp-fish. Which, Sprocket, being the more loving of our two dogs, loved. Meaning, that he loved to find a stinking fish-corpse and roll all over it, making sure to rub its juicy deliciousness deeply into the fur of his neck. Great.

Which is why the dogs ride in the bed of the truck. And why it was, once again, Bath Night. Zeek got a quick bath to get the general marshiness out of him. And Sprocket got a thorough double scrubbing to remove almost all of the death-and-dying-rot-and-decay foulness that he'd so carefully saturated himself with.

That's his third bath this week. Dead fish. Bird corpses. Animal poop. He's not picky about the essence, just enthusiastic about applying it. We're probably going to have to start beating him with a stick. One of these days. When we get around to it. And if we can find a big enough stick.

--Greg

ps This evening's mini-adventure was a non-stinky ride around town. But it was still hot so the dogs got to stop at this sprinkler. Where Sprocket seemed content to lay for the rest of the week.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

It's not as if there's not enough going on in our own garden, neighborhood, town. We've been busy weeding and harvesting and eating from Trina's little plot of ground. We spent a dry hour on an otherwise rainy day in the park where the dogs chased flying discs, or better, the purple martins that were flying low over the grass, hunting insects, canny enough to know the dogs were hunting them.

We cruised past tents where thousands of cyclists were preparing to ride through the Colorado mountains together. To us, it was amazing that people love to ride so much that they were willing to put up with being surrounded by other people to do it. Or... That people want to be around other people so much that they were willing to put up with riding and camping near a busy street just to be together.

Their first day of riding promised rain. They rode off in one direction. We went in another, and took a hike.

Two Canyons

In another part of the world -- and if we were other people -- we might explore the tops of mountains, seeking a path to the pointed peaks, striving to reach each summit. But in this part of the world, most of the high places are wide and flat. Mesas and plateaus fill our landscape.

Trina and I have found a comfortable rhythm in our small, aimless wanderings together. When on foot, we often find ourselves in one of the many canyons that cut into the mesas and plateaus. Our slow explorations of canyons suits us, I believe, in a way that mountain tops might not.

When moseying along in a canyon, there is a sense that our motion, slow as it may be, is the point of where we are. Not that our motion is taking us to a specific place. Or, rather, that the place is as broad and fluid as the water that might be flowing, or may have once been flowing down the canyon. A place much less pointed than the top of a mountain.

***

Rainy Sunday. The rain stops. We leave behind our garden, neighborhood, town and thousands of riders, and we hike down into a lonely canyon. The rock walls are stacked in layers of tan and brick-red. At this higher elevation, bright spring herbs and forbs and bushes and grasses paint the narrow meadows where clear water runs. A mix of dark pine trees crowd the edges of the meadows, tower high near the water, then skip lightly up the ledges and steps of the rock walls.

We move happily through meadows as dogs romp through flowers, jump in creeks and notice all the smells that dogs love to notice. We notice bright flowers and moss forests. Bird songs and cool air. The smell of sage and the sight of iridescent green beetles coupled together in bright rays of sunshine that stab through the low clouds.

We cross the creek again and again. Walk the fringes of beaver ponds where the trail has drowned. And then, as the clouds move lower, we move upward, back up the trail toward the canyon rim. Where, just as we arrive at the truck, the rain begins again.

***

Sunny Monday. The evening begins to cool. Another canyon, this one a bit closer to home. We wander into the shadows between the high, narrow walls, past pools and puddles from yesterday's rain. Sand, bedrock, boulders. We step and jump, slide and scuff as the walls crowd closer still.

Warm shadows hide deeper pools where cottonwood trees gather and green bushes crowd, where canyon frogs live and die. Enough water for a small trickle to connect one pool to the next lower pool. Day fades from the strip of sky above. Blossoms jump from the gloom. A colorful beetle brighten a dark corner. We hand the dogs down steep pour-offs and continue.

The wall here has fallen, perhaps this year. A fresh strike on the wall where a huge mass of rock has tumbled down, and below, boulders, rubble, smashed trees, and a deep pool partially filled in. The water is tainted and stinky, but why? The clue remains on the wall where the slab released. Guano is heaped on the cliff where bats were recently sheltered in a cave behind the now-missing slab. More of the smelly guano is leaching into the pool.

We wander the twists and turns of the canyon for hours. Then emerge where the walls come down beside us. The sun has set. We take a straighter path back to the truck under the glowing skies of twilight. Then return to our town, our neighborhood, our garden, having been to no one specific point that could define our wandering.

Though, if we're lucky our wandering will have helped define something about us.